Childe Morgan

by Katherine Kurtz

  “Very well. I’ll accept that for now.” He turned the bracelet in his hands again, then clasped it to his right wrist and sighed. “I can hardly believe that he is gone,” he mused aloud, glancing at the dancing flames in the fireplace, then at Kenneth. “Somehow, I never imagined that it would really happen. You will stay by me, won’t you, Sir Kenneth?”

  “You have my word, Sire. I shall never abandon you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Brion drew another deep, steadying breath, then let it out explosively and sat forward, looking uncomfortable.

  “They’ve taken him to the chapel royal to lie in state until the funeral,” he said then, not meeting Kenneth’s gaze. “Will you…come with me to pay my respects—now, when there are only the guards and maybe a few family members?”

  “Of course, my prince,” Kenneth replied.

  THEY had known there would be a guard of honor, partly drawn from the late king’s most faithful retainers, but they had not reckoned on the monks, come up from the cathedral to pray for the king’s peaceful repose. Brion stiffened in the doorway of the chapel with Kenneth at his elbow, taking the measure of what lay at the other end of the chapel’s center aisle besides his father’s body.

  The four guards, all battle-arrayed, stood motionless at the corners of the black-draped catafalque on which King Donal lay, their eyes averted, gloved hands resting on the quillons of their naked swords. The body itself was a blur of Haldane crimson, which immediately caught the eye, but even Kenneth could sense the appraising gaze of the monks turning toward them from the shadows beyond the bier, where a dozen of them, white-robed and hooded, knelt with prayer beads dangling from their clasped hands, their prayers a soft murmur that set the chapel a-hum.

  Six tall funeral candlesticks also guarded the bier, three to each side, the only light in the chapel save for the Presence lamp above the tabernacle and the bank of blue votive candles before the statue of the Virgin. By that bluish light, the white-robed monks looked decidedly sinister, disapproving.

  “Why did they have to be here?” the young king muttered under his breath, so that only Kenneth could hear.

  “Surely you cannot have thought that they would not be here, my prince,” Kenneth replied. “The archbishop will have sent them, as a mark of respect.”

  Scowling, the new king lingered a moment longer just inside the west door, steeling himself. Then he pushed back the hood of his cloak and walked briskly down the center aisle, Kenneth like a shadow at his heels.

  The guards remained motionless as Brion approached the bier; the monks ducked their heads over their prayer beads. Kenneth hung back a little as the new king paused to bow to the altar and then moved closer to stand to the right of his father’s bier and bow again, this time to the dead king.

  They had laid Donal out in a crimson mantle of state and an under-robe of white damask, reminiscent of what he had worn for his coronation, more than twenty years before, with the crown of Gwynedd on his brow and the Haldane sword laid atop his body, the hands clasped over the hilt. For the first time in many years, Kenneth thought, he looked at peace.

  Much moved, he inclined his head in respect, then blessed himself and breathed a prayer for the king’s soul. After a moment, Brion bent to gently kiss his father’s cheek, then turned away, grief in his eyes as he rejoined Kenneth and they headed back up the aisle.

  WORD of the king’s death took three days to reach Alyce at Morganhall, for another early winter storm had swept in from the north the day before, burying the hills in heavy, sticky snow. The courier who brought Kenneth’s letter was exhausted and half frozen, soaked to the skin, and could barely speak at first, as he allowed himself to be led to the warmth of the great fireplace in the hall. There, while he waited to put the letter directly into Alyce’s hands, he let himself be wrapped in several dry blankets and plied with hot mulled ale while he gasped out the first grim news through chattering teeth.

  The servant who came to fetch Alyce was Master Leopold, steward of the manor. He found her in the solar, where she had been reclining by its fire beside Vera and Kenneth’s two sisters, who were mending linens. Alaric and Duncan were playing with toy knights and blocks on the hearth, and Kevin was reading in the stronger light from a neaby window. All four women looked up as he entered, instantly sobered by his expression.

  “Beg pardon, my ladies, but a courier has just arrived from Rhemuth.”

  “In this weather?” Claara started to protest, looking scandalized.

  “I fear he’s brought ill news,” Leopold went on, cutting across her as he locked his gaze on his master’s wife. “The king has died, my lady. Sir Jaska Collins is waiting in the hall with a letter from Lord Kenneth. He says he has orders to deliver it only into your hands.”

  Alyce had gone very still at the news, and she carefully eased herself to a sitting position as Vera set aside her stitching; her sisters-in-law gasped and then began whispering urgently to one another.

  “You should have brought him straight up,” Alyce said numbly. “I’ll go to him at once. Did he say when it happened, or how?”

  The steward shook his head. “Unknown, my lady. He’s half-frozen and exhausted, so I’ve left him by the fire to thaw out.”

  Nodding, Alyce eased herself to her feet and pulled a shawl more closely around her shoulders. Now in the final weeks of her pregnancy, she moved ponderously toward the door, then let the steward precede her slowly down the stairs to the great hall. Sir Llion was conversing animatedly with the newcomer, who rose at once as Alyce entered, clasping his blankets around him with one hand and favoring her with a quick bow as he produced a sealed square of folded parchment.

  “Thank you for coming, Sir Jaska,” she murmured, taking the letter as Sir Llion pulled another chair closer to the fire and held it while she sat. “I trust that you are thawing somewhat.”

  “Aye, m’lady. I am sorry to be the bearer of such ill news.”

  “When and how did it happen?” she replied, not taking her eyes from him as she broke the letter’s seal.

  “Three days past,” Sir Jaska replied, sitting again at her gesture. “Apparently he took a chill about a fortnight ago, and never really managed to shake it off. They say it went to his lungs, but I think his heart was broken.”

  The remark about taking a chill made her wonder whether Donal’s secret journey to Morganhall had led to his death, but it was also a reminder of the sons the king had lost, and the eldest, now become king, whom he had hoped to keep safe at whatever cost.

  “Aye, Prince Jathan’s death will not have been easy to endure,” she said vaguely. As she began to skim the letter for more details, she found herself thinking of Donal’s other sons who had died untimely. She was heartened to learn that Kenneth had already ensured that Prince Brion took possession of the items she would need to seal his Haldane powers—for it was certain that, now, it would be she and not her young son who must catalyze what Donal had set in motion for his heir.

  “Do you know what arrangements have been made?” she asked, when she had finished reading.

  Sir Jaska shook his head. “Not when I left, my lady. What with the weather, I doubt they’ll try to delay the funeral until word can get out. I doubt many could get there much before Twelfth Night. But I’d guess that this means they’ll plan for a Twelfth Night coronation, since so many already plan to attend that court. That’s only six weeks away, but it’s always best to crown a young king as soon as possible—just so that no one gets ideas about taking advantage of his youth.”

  She had reached much the same conclusion regarding the coronation, and for some of the same reasons, but she reckoned that few would try to take advantage of Brion Haldane once he was crowned. And cupping a hand over her pregnant belly, she thought she should be safely delivered and able to travel by then.

  “You’re probably right,” she said, glancing at the letter again. “Much as I should like to offer my condolences to Prince Brion in person, that obviously isn’t po
ssible until this baby has arrived. It will be for my husband to represent the family for now. And by Twelfth Night, I’ll be able to bring Alaric as well, to swear fealty with his father.” She sighed.

  “Make certain you get a couple of good meals and a night’s sleep, Sir Jaska,” she told the courier. “I’ll wish to send a reply, but it can wait until morning. For now,” she glanced at the steward, “Leopold, please ask Father Swithun to attend me. We must ask him to say a Mass for the king—both our departed liege and the one who now is.”

  Chapter 22

  “And she being with child cried, travailing in birth,

  and pained to be delivered.”

  —REVELATIONS 12:2

  THE next days stretched into a week, the week into a fortnight, and more. Daily Alyce sought the signs that might herald her lying-in, but to little avail. Ten days after Kenneth’s first letter, a second arrived, with a sketchy account of King Donal’s state funeral and confirming Twelfth Night as the date for King Brion’s coronation. A week into December, after several more rounds of letters, Kenneth himself arrived from Rhemuth, with greetings from the new king and permission—within reason—to remain at Morganhall until Alyce gave birth.

  “You must be very near to term,” Kenneth observed, dismissing Xander to visit with Vera and Llion and the boys while he and Alyce settled by the fire with a jug of mulled ale. He had left Trevor in Rhemuth with the king.

  “I certainly hope so!” Alyce retorted. “How is the king?”

  “As nervous as a cat in a room full of hounds—though he has Duke Richard to look after him, and Jamyl Arilan has taken on squiring for him,” Kenneth said. “For my part, I had very nearly reached the end of my tether in Rhemuth, what with crotchety crown counselors and irritable bishops. Brion will be the third Haldane king I have served, but I don’t remember this much contention when old King Malcolm died and Donal was crowned.” He sipped from his cup, then lifted it slightly in concession.

  “Of course, Donal was a grown man then, in his forties, and I was a green young knight, and still learning my trade. I don’t suppose this current batch of bureaucrats is any better or any worse. At least Brion should be safe enough in Rhemuth, until we can get him crowned. I’m just weary.”

  “My poor darling,” Alyce murmured, coming to stand behind his chair and knead at his taut shoulders.

  A little later, when they had supped with the household, and tucked up Alaric, and retired to the privacy of their bed, Kenneth at last dared to reveal something of what had gone on privately concerning the new king.

  “I’m not certain how much he’s aware of, regarding whatever it was that Donal did to prepare him,” Kenneth told her in private, as they lay curled together in sleepy contentment. “I did what I was ordered to do, but I have no idea why; and I certainly couldn’t tell him what I didn’t know.” He cocked his head at her in the light of the candle burning beside the bed. “It isn’t at all usual, to confide any of this to a human, is it?”

  She smiled dreamily, as baffled as he.

  “Dearest heart, I have no idea what is usual, especially when it concerns Haldanes,” she replied. “None of this was supposed to happen the way it is now unfolding. Krispin should not have died, Donal should have lived many more years, and we should never have been involved in any of this.”

  “But we are,” Kenneth said. Sighing, he splayed a hand across her belly, smiling as he felt the baby kick. “We’re going to have another warrior,” he said, grinning. “Or a warrior-princess,” he amended. “Have you any idea when he or she will arrive?”

  “She will arrive when she’s good and ready,” Alyce retorted, smiling smugly, for she had already been able to touch the tiny mind with hers. “I had thought to name her Bronwyn Rhetice. Do you approve?”

  “Aye, a noble name for a noble lass,” he agreed. “There was a Bronwyn among her Morgan ancestors, sister to Charlan Kai, who was the faithful companion of King Javan, and died at his side.”

  “And there was a Rhetice who was wife to Corwyn’s second duke,” said Alyce. “That’s why I chose those names. Our little lady will have a high heritage to live up to.”

  “I am certain she shall rise to the challenge,” Kenneth said languidly, laying his head on her breast as one hand slid along the bulge of her belly to stroke the softness of her thighs. “And I think we should do our best to encourage her arrival as soon as possible, don’t you?” he whispered, as his caresses began to send delicious shivers through her belly.

  HER contractions began early the next morning, sending a tizzy through all of Morganhall as Kenneth’s sisters sent for the midwife and began organizing the birthing chamber, and Vera hovered anxiously. The midwife came, but judged that her services would not be needed until much later in the day, possibly even well into the night.

  In fact, she was unneeded even then, for Alyce’s labor slowed dramatically, not resuming until well into the next day. When it did resume, her pains were long and hard. Vera and the two Morgan sisters stayed with her every minute, seeing to her every need, though they asked Kenneth to leave before the actual birth. By the time Alyce delivered, it was early on the morning of the twelfth of December, and she had lost a good deal of blood.

  But the predicted girl-child was strong, with a lusty set of lungs, and soon was nursing vigorously. Kenneth inspected the new arrival soon after the women had cleaned up mother and child, and pronounced his daughter perfect in every way. Later in the afternoon, after Alyce had napped, Kenneth brought in their son to see his new sister. The boy approached in wonder, eyes wide with curiosity, tiptoeing to the side of the bed where his mother cradled the new babe in her arms.

  “Is that my sister?” he whispered.

  Smiling, Alyce tilted the babe so that he could see, and Kenneth lifted him higher, to sit on the edge of the great bed.

  “Alaric, this is your sister, Bronwyn,” he said.

  “She’s so little,” the boy breathed. “If I touch her, will she wake up?”

  “I don’t think so,” Alyce replied. “She’s had a very hard birthday. Just be very gentle.”

  As she nodded encouragement, Alaric reached out a tentative finger to stroke the baby’s downy head.

  “She’s got soft hair,” he said, grinning.

  “She has hair just like you had, when you were a wee baby,” Alyce replied.

  “Can I hold her?” came the next question.

  “Well…” Alyce began.

  “Oh, I think we can arrange that,” Kenneth said, glancing at Alyce’s maid as he helped the boy down to the floor. “Melissa, could you bring some pillows over here?” he asked, pulling a heavy chair with arms closer to the bed.

  Lifting Alaric up to sit on it, he then arranged several pillows on his lap. The boy craned his neck to watch as his father gathered up the swaddled infant and brought her over to the chair, carefully setting her in her big brother’s arms, resting on the pillows, and knelt down beside them.

  “Papa, she’s so little,” the boy breathed, his eyes wide as he glanced up at his father. As he gently touched one of the little hands, the baby’s fingers closed around one of his, producing an excited grin.

  “I think she likes me!” he whispered.

  “She’s your sister,” Kenneth replied, smiling. “And because you’re the big brother, you must always take care of her, and keep her safe.”

  “I will, Papa, I will!” Alaric said. “When will she get bigger?”

  “Every day,” Kenneth answered. “And you must help Mama and Melissa take care of her, so that she’ll grow strong and healthy. You’ll do that won’t you?”

  The boy’s grinning nod left no doubt that he was more than willing to assume his fraternal responsibilities.

  TWO more days Kenneth remained at Morganhall, before making a quick trip to Rhemuth to check on the king and report the birth. Though he returned in time to celebrate Bronwyn’s first Christmas, he found his wife less recovered from her confinement than he had hoped.

&
nbsp; “I’m fine,” she insisted, as she met him in the hall, though her color was poor, and she had engaged a wet nurse from the village.

  “Is she fine?” Kenneth asked his sisters later in the afternoon, when Alyce had retired for a nap.

  Delphine, solid and dependable and slightly older than he, drew him closer to the fire, where Claara was playing with one of her grandchildren. Vera had stayed to read in the chamber where Alyce slept, and Llion had taken Alaric and Duncan outside for a run-around in the garden with Alaric’s hound-puppy.

  “I don’t know,” Delphine said in a low voice, drawing Kenneth to a seat a little apart from her sister. “Claara says it is nothing, but I am frankly worried. I fear it may be the milk fever, though she denies she has any of the symptoms. She did lose a lot of blood. She does not rest enough. She pushes herself too fast, but she is determined that she must be strong enough to travel to the coronation. Can you not make her see some sense?”

  Kenneth sighed, leaning his forearms on his thighs to interlace his fingers.

  “She can be a very stubborn woman, Delphine,” he said. “And seeing the new king crowned is very important to her.” And to him, he added in his own mind. “But there is time yet.”

  But time was running out for Alyce de Corwyn Morgan. She had been feverish for the first Mass of Christmas, which she insisted on attending, and was worse the following day. She spent most of St. Stephen’s Day in bed even as she directed the packing of her gowns for the trip to Rhemuth and the coronation. By Childermas, two days later, even she was forced to admit that her illness was serious. And Kenneth, himself poised to head back to the capital, was torn between loyalty to his new young king and devotion to his wife.

  “You will not be able to go with me to the coronation,” he told her sternly, when Claara had gone out of the sickroom to fetch clean compresses. “You must rest, regain your strength.”